


Little Pieces of Ignorance

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Elvhen Ascension [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, Complicated Relationships, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dalish Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Fantastic Racism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 13:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20694092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: It's not easy, being the Inquisitor and being Dalish.





	Little Pieces of Ignorance

It was little things, mostly.

Nothing so audacious as calling him _knife ear_ or making some other slur against the elves, or getting nasty with him, getting unpleasant. It was… just _discomfort_, at times, visible discomfort, or uncertainty. People let themselves forget, he thought, what Lavellan was, who he was, where he’d come from.

Little comments, here and there, little pieces of ignorance.

It was draining.

It wasn’t going anyway any time soon.

# 1

“Do they go all the way down?” Flissa asked. They were in the _Singing Maiden_, and Lavellan looked up from his drink, meeting her gaze. He was sitting with Sera and Varric, sipping at beer and trying to relax after a long, long day of talking with so many Andrastians, facing so many _accusations_, and receiving so many more…

Whatever the opposite was. It made his skin crawl, that they kept trying to heighten him to some religious figure in their head, and even Sera and Varric were Andrastian, albeit quiet about it – Lavellan heard the ways they casually referenced the Maker, or Andraste. They weren’t even aware of it, so richly woven through speech, through the world around them, as it was.

“My vallaslin?” Lavellan asked. “No. The writing is on the face, and only on the face. It’s a sign of adulthood: our children, when they’re old enough to take on adult responsibilities within the clan, receive their vallaslin.”

“Does it hurt?” Flissa asked. She was holding a jug of ale in her hands, leaning forward, and Lavellan saw only curiosity, only eagerness, in her face. Others in the tavern were listening, craning to hear, and not for the first time amidst all these humans and these city elves, Lavellan felt like something stuffed and mounted in a museum, to be analysed and passed about as exhibit of a strange and foreign culture.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s like one of your tattoos – a needle pierces the skin, and the ink is folded beneath. It is to be done in silence. If you cry out, if you grunt in pain, the Keeper knows you aren’t yet ready to receive your vallaslin.”

“How old are you?” Varric asked.

“Most are around eighteen, nineteen,” Lavellan said, shrugging his shoulders. “I was some weeks younger than seventeen.”

“That’s horrid,” Sera said.

“That’s _awful_,” Flissa said. “They made you get those tattoos?”

“No, I chose them,” Lavellan murmured, not letting the defensiveness creep into his voice, not letting it raise, and he made sure he didn’t grip too tightly at his beer mug. Varric was watching him carefully, and Lavellan forced himself not to grit his teeth. “It’s a mark of pride, to the Dalish – it shows you to be capable, assured, an adult in your own right. You’re no longer a child. It marks us from the outsiders, too.”

“But what do they _mean_?” Flissa asked. “The trees?”

“This design represents the goddess Mythal,” Lavellan said, reaching up and brushing the deep brown cresting his cheek bones, complementing the leafy designs over his brow, his forehead, his nose. “She’s the All-Mother, and she’s the patron goddess of justice. And of mothers, of course, mothers and children, and love.”

Flissa stared down at him. There was a silence in the tavern, and Lavellan glanced from Varric and Sera to the others in the room, at all the people _staring_ at him.

“So you… But… But that’s a false…” Flissa trailed off.

_False god_, Lavellan finished in his head. He set his mug aside. “Forgive me,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ve gotten carried away: I have some work to do before I go to bed. Good night.”

Varric followed him as he made his way up toward the Chantry.

“They didn’t mean anything by it,” he said casually. “Just people being people.”

“They assume my gods have been replaced by theirs,” Lavellan said. “I tell people I don’t like this Herald nonsense: I am ignored; I tell Leliana and Cassandra and Josephine to discourage people from using the title; I am ignored. To my face, people all but beg me to be anything but an elf, let alone Dalish. They look at me and see Andraste, nothing more than a shadow figure that they’ve painted themselves on the wall.”

“The Hero of Fereldan was Dalish,” Varric said quietly.

“So she was,” Lavellan agreed, and he heard the bitterness in his own voice. “She died for these people. When I do that, inevitably, will they pretend me a city elf? Worse, will they remember be as a shem, if they remember me at all?”

“It’s not the be-all end-all,” Varric said.

“Not to you,” Lavellan said, and made his way inside.

# 2

“Do you have to do that?” Sera demanded, and Lavellan looked up from his meal, then looked back down at it. He’d only just sat down, and he couldn’t tell precisely what it was that was upsetting her – Gods knew it couldn’t possibly be his table manners, because Sera herself had none to speak of.

“To… eat?” Lavellan asked, arching an eyebrow.

“It isn’t often I agree with the likes of Sera, but… It’s very _rude_, dear,” Vivienne said, “to speak in a language not everyone in the room understands.”

Lavellan glanced to Solas, who had sat down beside him. They’d been talking as they’d come into the room to eat, and not about anything incredibly important – only about Solas’ adventures in the fade. He’d scarcely been aware they weren’t _speaking_ in the common tongue, but he supposes they were using Elvish. It just felt… natural.

“Vraiment ?” Lavellan asked smoothly, meeting Vivienne’s gaze. “Et ce fait, Vivienne, c’est vrai pour tout le monde, ou peut-être c’est vrai pour les elfes, et pas pour tout?”

“Your pronunciation needs work, darling,” Vivienne said, somewhat coldly.

“_So does your riposte, it seems_,” Solas said in pleasant Elvish, and Lavellan had to hold himself back from laughing.

Sera scowled. “D’you just have to rub in how foreign you are? Not like the common elves, too good for them, innit?”

“I’m not foreign,” Lavellan said. “May I eat, now?”

Sera scoffed, and Lavellan turned back to his plate.

# 3

Lavellan sighed as he stepped out of the door to his quarters, resting for a moment on the little walkway before he made his way down into the main hall of Skyhold. Haven was behind them now, and yet so much stretched out ahead of them – so many nobles, and now that he was _Inquisitor_…

He had struggled to sleep last night, turning it over and over in his head.

This was worse than being the Herald of Andraste. He was more than that, now – he was the Inquisitor, he was more than a mere rumour of potential faith. People were increasingly looking to him as the leader of something _religious_, and…

Yes, the Chantry was still scattered in ruins, still arguing over everything, and yet…

Skyhold was building up and up, now. He just had to go with it.

He sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair as he descended the stairs, stepping out and into the main hall, turning to make his way into Josephine’s office. They would be setting out for Crestwood later in the day, but in the meantime there was no doubt paperwork for him to make his way through, and in preparation for this business with Empress Celene…

He was worried about it. The Orlesians played their Game with all the delicacy of an assassin with their blade: sudden, sharp, cutting. It was all-encompassing, and he shuddered at the thought of being in the midst of all those humans, so concerned with backstabbing one another merely for the sake of entertainment, and trying to make head or tail of all their nonsense, trying to prevent the Empress being assassinated…

“Ah, Inquisitor,” said Leliana, taking a step forward, and Lavellan looked between her and Josephine. They were both on their feet, standing before a little table set for two, and Lavellan hesitated.

“Sorry,” he said. “Am I interrupting your breakfast?”

The plates were empty, and clean. It was a ridiculously lavish cutlery set, made from gold, and gold was painted, too, on the plates and dishes, let alone the crystal drinking glasses. Lavellan shuddered to think of whatever noble they’d borrowed it from transporting it up the mountain – but then, human nobles didn’t think about things like fragility, did they?

“Er, no,” Leliana said. “This is for the Masquerade.”

Lavellan frowned. “The Masquerade?” he repeated, glancing down again at the polished metal of the knives, forks, and spoons. “I’m sorry, I don’t…?”

“We need to begin drilling you on proper etiquette, so that you can better obtain court approval,” Josephine said, glancing at Leliana. “It will be… difficult for you, Inquisitor, to gather approval from the Orlesian court, erm, because—” She trailed off awkwardly, and Lavellan felt a familiar, uncomfortable shift in the base of his gut. “And of course, it isn’t just for the Masquerade, it’s for dinners with nobles…”

He stared at the dinner plates.

“Because…?” Lavellan repeated, arching his eyebrows and looking between Josephine and Leliana both. Leliana’s expression remained neutral, but Josephine faltered, her mouth falling open, her eyes widening. “No, really, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Inquisitor,” Leliana said.

“Because of the heretical nature of someone being named Andraste’s Herald, maybe?” Lavellan suggested. “Because I’m an elf?”

“We really—” Josephine began.

“Because I’m a Dalish,” Lavellan said, smiling with savage teeth, “and I don’t know how to eat at a human dining table.” He stepped forward. “Orlesian table setting. From the outside in on the left, forks for the fish course, meat course, salad course. From the outside in on the right, seafood fork, soup spoon, knives for the fish course, meat course, salad course.”

Josephine looked away.

Leliana said, “I’m sorry, I did not know that you…”

“Stop,” Lavellan said, palm raised. “I also know how to waltz, how to dance. I walk with proper posture, I know _several_ bows, and even a few curtsies. I’m _well-read_, Leliana: I know history, I know poetry, I know literature. That’s why my Keeper sent me to the Conclave in the first place – because I knew humans better than most, and knew their customs. So what exactly did you want to drill me in?”

“I’m sorry,” Josephine said, when Leliana didn’t speak. She didn’t like to misstep, Lavellan knew – neither of them did.

Leliana’s gaze was on the floor, and then she met Lavellan’s eyes. Shame showed on her face, at least.

“I only wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be embarrassed,” she said.

“I’m not embarrassed,” Lavellan said. “Paperwork, Josephine?”

“Nothing today,” Josephine said.

“Then I’ll gather the party and make ready for Crestwood,” Lavellan said crisply, and made his way out.

# 4

“You’re not wearing shoes,” said the Iron Bull. He sounded amused. He often sounded amused, wry, when he spoke with Lavellan, and that had only deepened since they’d started…

Well.

It was a warm summer’s day, and they were out on the Exalted Plains. He was wearing footwraps that Taniel had gifted him at the Dalish camp, and it was unbelievably freeing, to walk without leather compassing his feet and his legs, to be able to move with his toes in the sand and the dirt.

“I hate wearing shoes,” Lavellan said. “I’d never wear them again if I had the choice.”

“You don’t have a choice?” Iron Bull asked, tone playful.

“You need shoes,” Blackwall said gruffly as he came back to the camp, and Lavellan stared into the dying embers of the fire. “No time for pretty Dalish feet out here – you’ll get your toes broken.” It was blunt, casual. He hadn’t heard the conversation, that much was clear.

Lavellan turned to meet Iron Bull’s eye. The smile had fallen away from his face.

# 5

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Lavellan asked, once. “For caring as much as I do?”

“It angers you that they look at you and remake you, in their minds, as something you are not,” Solas said quietly. “You feel you are broken to pieces, and remade again in an image you do not approve of, that does not suit your being. That isn’t stupid, lethallin. It’s as natural a feeling as any.”

Lavellan put his head down, pressing his face against his thumbs, exhaling raggedly. “I don’t want to be anyone’s god.”

“Would you rather be the monster under their bed?” Solas asked.

Lavellan glanced at him. Solas was gentle in his guidance at times, and firmer at others. Now, his expression was unreadable, until his fingers gently brushed Lavellan’s arm, his thumb stroking the seam of his shoulder, where the sleeve met the rest of his shirt. 

“I merely meant,” Solas said quietly, “that you could be worse, in their eyes. You stand to do a lot for the world, in your current position. Get some rest. And… don’t work too hard today. Allow yourself some small leisure – read a book, play chess with Pavus.”

“Iron Bull plays chess too, you know,” Lavellan said.

Solas cleared his throat. “Yes, well,” he said. “I did say a_ small_ leisure.”

Lavellan laughed – it was weak, and hoarse, but he laughed.

# +1

Lavellan’s wrists were tightly bound at the small of his back, and a black cloth was tied over his eyes. He couldn’t see a thing, although it was light outside, and he was straddling Iron Bull’s waist. He was breathing slowly, evenly, and Bull’s fingers traced circles up and down his thighs, over his waist.

“Tell me another one,” Bull said.

Lavellan felt suspended in the blackness, as if it were merely he and Bull, drifting in the void together. Bull was both his anchor and the sail he navigated by: Bull was everything that bound Lavellan to the earth itself, prevented him from being just another star distantly scattered amidst the Heavens.

“Elgar’nan was born of the sun and the earth,” Lavellan murmured. “He promised his mother he would destroy his father, the sun, because he had burned her, burned so much. He buried the sun beneath darkness and earth, and promised to destroy him when he returned. The earth counselled him not to, for without the sun, the earth would die, and so too would all upon it. But Elgar’nan is the patron of vengeance – he was too angry. He _had_ to destroy the sun, damn the consequences—

“And Mythal, born from the sea, walked up to him, and she laid her hand on his brow. In that one movement she drew all the fury, the rage, from within him, balancing his fire with the cool of her water, and Elgar’nan knew peace. His anger, his fury, it dissipated – blind vengeance was abandoned in favour of care.

“He told the sun he would release him, so long as his light was gentle, and caused no harm to those it touched. He offered mercy in exchange for mercy.” It was strange, telling these tales like this, naked as they both were, skin touching skin, and yet Bull never interrupted, never complained. It was always him who prompted Lavellan to tell them, although Lavellan knew he was no natural story-teller, as so many were in his clan – much of what he said was recited from books and poems, scant pieces of phrase, tied clumsily together, a tapestry recreated in patchwork.

Solas had told him once that he was a better storyteller than he might think.

“Then what happened?” Iron Bull asked. His thumbs rubbed pleasantly against the divot of Lavellan’s hip, on each side.

“As husband and wife, Elgar’nan and Mythal acted as one,” Lavellan said. “They restored life and peace to the things upon the earth, bringing once more to brightness and beauty the things of the gardens, the flowers, the trees, and those of the rivers that had dried in their beds, and the birds, the creatures of the earth…

“And when the sun laid down to rest, Mythal scooped up some of the dirt from about his bed, and made of it the moon. A reflection of the sun, yes, but a… _testament_ to the power it had. A ghost of its former fury, always shadowing it, always reminding it. The sun could not be allowed to forget, but it was a gentle reminder.” He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I think.”

The Bull’s fingers came up, undoing the blindfold, and Lavellan looked down at his face as his thumbs traced the lines on Lavellan’s cheekbones, his fingers touching his brow, also. Those fingers, so large, were impossibly gentle, as though Lavellan were some fragile thing the Bull thought might shatter between his mighty palms.

“That’s who this vallaslin represents,” Bull said. “The goddess of gentle reminders, huh?”

“Most people simply say motherhood,” Lavellan murmured, and Bull laughed.

“That’s… We haven’t got stories like that in the Qun. No little gods, no spirits. But they’re beautiful, when you tell ‘em. Do you believe in them? Those gods?”

“I don’t know,” Lavellan said quietly. “I believe in what they represent. I believe in gentle reminders, in peace, in justice. Our Gods don’t order us about, or leave scripture that we must argue over… Instead, we govern ourselves. The stories are fables: they teach us, guide us, but we can make of them what we choose.”

“Frustrated with Andraste?”

“Cassandra, Leliana,” Lavellan said softly. “They would carve me in a saviour’s image. And yet to do so, they seek to carve away all that makes me as I am. I would be willing, if it were the last resort, to sacrifice my life for the Inquisition, for the people here, but to sacrifice my… I don’t know. My soul? My personhood? That seems too much to ask, and they don’t even ask. No one asks. My moulding is done by committee.”

“You know I’m not tryna do that, right?” Iron Bull asked. “I’m not trying to train you into anything you don’t want.”

“I know,” Lavellan murmured.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t protest a _little_,” Bull murmured, rolling his hips up against Lavellan’s arse, and Lavellan laughed breathlessly, shifting his fingers in their place. “S’kinda nice, when you groan and whine a little bit.”

“Noted.”

“Tell me another one,” Bull said.

“Are you going to fuck me tonight,” Lavellan asked, “or just ask me for stories?”

“You listen to people tell you their stories all day long, every day,” Iron Bull said quietly. “You don’t know something, you ask. You listen to people tell you about Andraste, or mages or templars, or Orlais, or Kirwall, or Tevinter… Or the Qun. How many people ask you about your people? Not asking like when they think you’re a funny thing in the zoo, or a plaque at the museum, not when they’re trying to feel out whether you’re the Herald they want. Like _you_ ask. Quiet, engaged, curious, but not without _feeling_. You get what I’m saying?”

“Thank you,” Lavellan said. He was surprised by the emotion in his own voice. “But I think I’ve had enough of being… a person, tonight. Even a Dalish one.”

“Got it,” Bull murmured, and flipped them over.

\--

“Ma vhenan,” Iron Bull rumbled in Lavellan’s ear, and Lavellan felt himself relax even further against Bull’s chest, melting against his skin.

“Kadan,” Lavellan returned, and let himself drift.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to hit up [my ask on Tumblr,](http://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/ask) to talk about DA in general, and definitely to recommend blogs to follow! I am open for requests (for Origins, II, and Inq).


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